The Two Sided Coin
by aerox
Summary: There are two sides to every coin. Chuck sees both sides as he gets recruited as Fulcrum's intersect. But what happens after the C.I.A. captures him? To whom will Chuck be loyal?
1. Prologue

**A/N: **This is the prologue to my second multi-chapter fic. I've decided to bash out a prologue and continue the story after I'm done with the Intersect project. More A/N after the story, I recommend you read it.

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

**2028**

"Bryce, dinner will be ready in around ten minutes," Sarah called out into the hallway.

"I'll be right out," he shouted back.

Sarah glanced around the kitchen. It was a gesture she found herself repeating over and over. As if to reinforce her belief that what she saw was real. The marble was polished to a brilliant shine, and it reflected Sarah's face perfectly. The smile that was adorning her face was almost as brilliant.

The house was situated in a nice suburban area. It was for all intents and purposes, the American dream. She even had a white picket fence, and an SUV. Of course, she also had the Porsche. It was ancient, but she still loved the car. It reminded her of how things could've been so much worse. It was ironic. A beautiful piece of engineering being the prime reminder of how bad her life had been. Of course, back in the day she never thought there was anything wrong. It wasn't until she took a step back from it all and had casted a critical eye over her own life that she saw how utterly despondent it was. At that point, the decision had been the easiest anything had ever been. She hadn't regretted it once.

"How the mighty have fallen," Graham had muttered when she told him of her intentions to quit the C.I.A. She simply laughed at him. Still clutching on to the job to give him some form of personal fulfillment. Sarah was glad that she had left that worthless life behind her. Still, it did sting a tiny bit to see someone who she had looked up to as a father figure, dismiss her so coldly. Couldn't he see that this was what she truly wanted? He hadn't bothered showing up to the wedding either.

Thinking it through, the resentment towards Graham kept growing. She marched to the kitchen, and began stirring in the sauce. Her aptitude with the kitchen had increased since she started living together, and cooking was oddly cathartic. She made a mean pasta. Sure, it wasn't the most challenging dish in the world, but one needs to control the basics before moving on to the more challenging stuff. And she had. Sarah had never failed a mission in her life. Well, that's not entirely true. She had failed one mission. The ramifications for failing it were the biggest in her life. It was the best failure she had ever experienced.

A blonde mop came bounding through the quiet suburban house. "Mom, I'm home!" it shouted. Sarah's smile grew even wider.

"Lisa, you're back! How was school?"

Lisa was fifteen years old. She could pass for Sarah's twin. Her build was long, athletic and drop-dead gorgeous. There was nary a trace of her father. Sarah found it to be a shame.

Lisa shrugged. "You know how it is. Same old, same old. P.E. was interesting though. I totally kicked butt."

"And have you done your homework?"

Lisa rolled her eyes. "Sure, mom. I've done my homework."

"Can I see it?"

"God, mom. Is it 'Grill Your Daughter' day or something? Jeez, you'd think you were an interrogator or something."

Sarah walked up to her daughter, and gave her a hug. "Don't worry, sweetie. I'll stop asking those questions."

"Ugh, can you please stop calling me… Hey!"

Sarah had several of Lisa's books in her hands, flipping through them. She stopped at the point where the last written notes were. "Look here, Lisa. This ink has dried for a period of over twenty-four hours. It's impossible that you've done your homework, seeing as how you haven't even bothered writing anything."

Lisa snatched the books away and gave her mother the stink-eye. "Yeah, you could be a detective, or a spy or something."

Sarah laughed. "Don't worry. I'm not a spy."

Lisa rolled her eyes and put the books back in her backpack. She ran up the stairs to her room. Sarah simply shook her head, and went for a taste of the sauce. "Needs more salt." As she absentmindedly added the seasoning, she let her mind drift back to the dinner tonight. It would be huge. The announcement that she was pregnant. Bryce and Lisa didn't know yet. She only found out a few days ago and had kept a tight lid on it. She could only imagine Bryce's reaction. He had always been in favor of Sarah having another child.

As she gathered the pot for the noodles, she thought about the people in her life. One name kept popping up. _Chuck_. God, she missed him. Her first true love. He had shown her the definition of what it was to love without reservations. It allowed her the strength to grow in her own convictions. She actually teared up a little thinking about him. It was through his guidance that she had grown to love other people, like Bryce for example. At first she didn't think she could. It scared her. The entire idea of being so vulnerable with someone else was a terrifying thought, courtesy of a messed up childhood and a less than stellar social life during high school. Then of course, there was Graham and his recruitment program from Hell.

But Chuck had saved her. Had shown her that it wasn't so scary to share. He started out taking it slow on her. Little tidbits of information would slip through her carefully constructed walls, fortifying the way to her heart. Every time she'd catch herself on letting something slip, she had mentally berated herself. But it kept happening. She was spellbound by the man. His disarming personality and charms that simply sneaked up on you left you wanting more. Sure, they had some really bad times, and some really great times. But she wouldn't trade them for the world.

And it was through him that she had learned to love others. It had started with him. He was the catalyst to the downfall of agent Walker and the rebirth of Sarah Walker. And when she had expressed interest in learning to love Bryce, in the knowledge that she didn't know if she could, he hadn't laughed at her. He hadn't gotten upset. He simply helped her like he always did. She never once regretted it. God, she missed him.

She picked out a string of noodle from the boiling water, and tasted it. It had only a slight bite left in it. Perfect. Tonight would be perfect.

"Bryce, dinner is ready. Are you coming?"

"Coming," he called back. She heard the door opening and the feet flying down the stairs. Bryce had always been a fan of pasta. As he came sprinting in, the curly brown hair that he had inherited from his father was bouncing wildly on his forehead. It only served for Sarah to miss Chuck even more. She glanced at her watch. Where was he? He should've been home already.

As if on cue, the key was entered into the lock, and Sarah's face lit up for the umpteenth time that day. _Finally!_

She all but dashed to the front door to meet him. He had only just opened the door when his hands were full with Sarah Bartowski. He didn't particularly seem to care.

"Hey baby, missed me?" he said, in between being mauled by Sarah.

"More than you think," she replied, still busy trying to find a way to fuse their tongues together. She heard a loud throat clearing from behind her. She turned to see Lisa and Bryce standing in the hallway. Their expressions were a mixture between disgust, mirth and awkward. Sadly, this hadn't even been the worst of it. There was a time where Chuck went on a business trip for three days. They had practically gotten naked in the doorway. Bryce's friends didn't really seem to mind the view. Sarah had kept particularly fit and she insisted that Chuck at least worked out. He didn't have to adhere to the ridiculous schedule that was Sarah's training regime, which frankly put most twenty-something kick boxers' schedules to shame, but she did like her man to remain fit. Sarah's physique was something that 30 year olds would probably go on a multi-state killing spree to attain. As a matter of fact, as she was pushing fifty, she still looked better than just about everyone they saw. Chuck would've been biased, but it was a pretty known fact. He was one of the luckiest S.O.B's on the face of the planet.

Of course, Sarah would always be quite quick to point out that if there was but one person lucky in their relationship, it was her. He had quite literally saved her from herself. And for that she would be eternally grateful. Chuck quite liked how she repaid her gratitude. And it had led to two beautiful children and another on the way. Chuck had always wanted normalcy. And there was a point in his life where he had truly feared the woman next to him. And there was a small but still discernable point in their history where he had loathed her existence. But standing flush against her, looking in her crystalline eyes, there was nowhere he would rather be. He started unconsciously twisting the ring on Sarah's finger.

"What are you doing?" she asked, with amusement coloring her tone, as Bryce and Lisa went to sit at the table.

Chuck heaved a deep sigh. "Just checking whether or not it's still all real."

"It's still real, Chuck. It'll always be real."

Chuck nodded. "Thank God. Now, let's go break the news, shall we?"

"Lead the way."

They walked back to the table where Bryce had started handing out plates of noodles. Sarah's brow furrowed in amusement at seeing Bryce so eager to start. She sat down and they began eating. During dinner, Sarah continuously sent glances towards Chuck. But every time she did, he subtly shook his head. _Not yet._

Finally, as Bryce had gone for a third plate, Chuck's head gave a curt nod. She cleared her throat. "Guys, we've got an announcement."

Chuck jumped in. "Your mother and I, we're having another baby."

"Eww!" both kids shouted out. Sarah stood slackjawed. That wasn't really the reaction that she was expecting.

"Ehh, want to try that one again?" Chuck asked.

"Dad, Mom, that's disgusting. We really don't need to know you guys still have… _sex._" Bryce started.

Sarah's confusion turned into a sly grin. "Oh? I thought we made it quite obvious. I see, apparently we've not been doing our part Chuck. We'll have to up the ante from now on."

"Eww!" was shouted in unison. Chuck joined in with his children.

"Sarah, it's one thing to show you how much I love you in private, but I think I agree with the kids here. I'd much rather it be kept exactly that… private."

Sarah threw on a mock pout. "Oh, alright, if you insist."

Chuck stood up and gave her a quick peck. Bryce intervened before it would turn passionate. "No, but seriously mom, that's great news. I'm really happy for you."

"Oh? I distinctly remember you being quite enthusiastic about the prospect of a little brother or sister not a few years ago."

Bryce shrugged. "I may or may not have a couple of detailed blueprints on how to mold my little sibling into the ultimate baby-brother or sister."

Chuck laughed. "Atta boy! But anyway, that's not everything. Tonight, we're going to tell you how your mother and I met."

Lisa groaned. "Sorry mom, dad, I know you think family time is important and to an extent, I agree. But that's just ridiculous."

Chuck shrugged. "If it were anything but the story we're going to tell you, I'd agree. But trust me baby girl, you're going to want to hear this story. It'll give you a whole new sense of respect for your amazing mother."

"So uh, how long is that going to take?" Bryce asked.

"A while. It's a long story."

"So, can we get started then?"

Chuck looked at Sarah, who nodded. "Alright then. Sarah will grab some stuff to help animate the story, and I'll fetch the drinks. You two get comfortable on the couch."

Sarah ran upstairs, and grabbed the box with spy gear they still had lying around. Old, doctored pictures; Sarah's old black, ops outfit; and even her trusty Smith and Wesson. She walked back downstairs, as Chuck had just put down the drinks. She dropped the box on the floor. The kids started rummaging through the stuff, whispering among each other. Finally, they had satisfied their curiosity, and sat back on the couch.

"So what is all that?" Bryce asked, gesticulating towards the box.

"Well, I'll explain what everything is in due time. Let's start at the beginning…" Sarah started, before taking a sip of her water. "We're going back to 2004. Your father was in his final year at Stanford. His life was going quite well. He was close to graduating, he had a fantastic best friend named Bryce Larkin and he had a girlfriend whom he loved. Her name was Jill." Sarah spat out her name.

"So uh, this Bryce Larkin… Am I named after him?"

Chuck nodded. "You'll find out why later on in the story."

Sarah took over once again. "As I said, the year was 2004 and your father was about to graduate from Stanford…"

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><p><strong>AN 2: **Okay, a few notes about this story. The way that the Intersect project is currently heading is to a strong reliance of fluff. That's fine, and it seems that a lot of you like reading it. But it wasn't what I originally set out to write. I wanted a fic that was darker in tone. But the story wouldn't work with will they won't they or even more than the current amount of angst that I'm throwing in it, so I opted to not put it in. However, we're going back to the spy world in this one, which unlocks a barrage of potential.

The reason for the prologue is simple. It's to set a clear ending. It means that I'll be able to unleash a torrent of abuse on Chuck and a similar onslaught on Sarah. "But wait, if you're already writing them together, how can there possibly be any angst left?" Don't worry. I've got some stuff up my sleeve.

As for the Charah in this story. It'll be there. For the sake of the story, it'll start out with Chuck and Jill together. Deal with it. When the Charah begins, I can't with 100% guarantee say that everyone will like it. People might find the way I write Sarah to be distasteful or disrespectful. All I'm saying is that I'm just peddling in the gray area that the show so graciously provided for us. It'll probably end up being overly dramatic rambling on my part, but I'm just saying what I'm planning at the moment. And of course, I'm guaranteeing a happy end, what with this prologue.

Having said that, I can't wait to start on it. I truly am excited for this story. It was my first idea (Intersect Project was actually my second, but somehow I started with that.) to write and the way it's heading, I'm expecting at least 200.000 words. As I'm hoping this will be my best work (which isn't really hard when it's between two works.) I've decided that I would like to enlist the help of a beta reader. I've no idea on how to go about contacting someone, but I'm just putting the word out there.

So anyway, that was my rambling done, I hope you enjoyed this little prologue and I definitely hope you stick around for when I can get around to actively writing for this story. Thank you for reading.


	2. We Have To Talk

**A/N**: The entire back-story and its changes for this particular AU is handled in this chapter. Hope you enjoy it. More AU after the chapter!

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: We have to talk<strong>

Chuck Bartowski's life was fantastic. A vibrant, as much as his nerdy tendencies would allow, college senior, close to graduation with a best friend that would die for him and a smoking hot girlfriend that at the same time was amazingly cute and had the same interests as he had. Yup, he had it all worked out. The sun was shining just for him and the world truly was his oyster.

He walked over the quad, whistling a tune that he couldn't remember ever hearing, but sounding catchy all the same. He looked around with a smile on his face as the quad was buzzing with college students, all wearing at least one piece of clothing which was adorned by the familiar name. Stanford.

He grinned at the pranks that the seniors were playing on the freshmen. He'd endured quite a few of those back when he first entered Stanford. Of course, back when he did first enter Stanford he was pretty much all alone, which made him an easy target. He had left his sister behind in Burbank after they settled in a comfortable apartment. His childhood home in Encino had been sold for quite a bit of money. The buyers wanted to remain anonymous, but they had more than doubled the market price. The realtor couldn't stop smiling as the dollar signs were practically in his eyes.

Of course, said realtor had done them a massive favor by not asking any uncomfortable questions when the house was put on the market by a seventeen year old girl and her younger brother. Their childhood was grueling, as both brother and sister had to pick up jobs to support themselves along with being able to afford the mortgage on the home, courtesy of their parents who had up and left a few years prior.

Chuck still shuddered as he thought back to his days as a Nerd Herder for the Buy More. He wondered whether those creepy guys were still there. What where their names again? Something like Leff and Hester. It didn't really matter anyway. One was a blatant alcoholic who had never heard of shampoo or conditioner in his life. And the other one… he reminded Chuck of an Indian lesbian. Of course, Chuck was fairly sure that the lesbian was actually a guy. He'd gotten that impression when they both dressed up in skin-tight outfits and butchered Whitesnake's "Is This Love?" Every time he heard the song he flashed back to the pelvic thrusts of the lesbian, coupled with a sudden urge to vomit.

Ellie had actually done a lot better. She had always wanted to be a doctor, so she grabbed every possible job that she could think of at the hospital. She'd found a job as a gift shop girl. But the real highlight came when two doctors were talking about a case they just couldn't figure out and Ellie had blurted out the correct diagnosis. The doctors were so impressed that they actually recommended her to the Chief of Medicine. A few calls later and she had gotten a full scholarship at UCLA in medicine. Of course, she already knew what her specialty would be. Neurology. Ellie had been fascinated by the human brain, but Chuck could never figure out why. She tried to explain it to him once, but he lost her around the point that she started talking about sub-neural connections that were connected to the frontal lobe. Chuck could talk nerd with the best of them, could blindly disassemble and reassemble computers and had even overclocked a Pentium II processor from 350 MHz to 1.5 GHz, but he had no idea as to what Ellie was saying. He fondly remembered the overclocking of the processor. It had taken him forty-eight hours, a tub full of silicone cooling gel and two fried motherboards thanks to the overheating of the processor, but he did end up pulling it off. He instantly became the coolest nerd that had ever roamed the frat house.

So now Ellie was studying to become a doctor and she was progressing fine. And Chuck was well on his way to becoming a successful computer engineer. Maybe he could finally become that software developer that he so desperately wanted to be. His mind was already chockfull of ideas that he could exploit. While Ellie had obsessed over the brain, Chuck had obsessed over his own hobbies. And he was kind of a certified genius. It appeared to be a common trait in the Bartowski family household. After all, both he and Ellie had an IQ that was well above the 140's, and Chuck was pretty sure that his father was brilliant as well. He was consistently tinkering on a whole bunch of computers that displayed a bunch of pictures in a rapid fashion. Chuck had seen those pictures once when he was young. He vividly remembered that day as he got a massive headache and his father told him he was special. Two days later, he left the family.

So much for being special.

Chuck had always figured that eventually, they would end up at Dr. Phil or something. After all, the Bartowski's really did put the dysfunction in "dysfunctional family". But Ellie kept them anchored. Kept him sane at the very least. She was always there for him, even if she herself was ridiculously busy. The brother-sister bond they got thanks to being left to their own devices was an unbreakable one.

Of course, there were a lot of downsides to being pretty much deserted and left to fend for themselves. One of them was the fact that Chuck found it harder to make friends. He was a likable guy; a lot of people told him that. It was just that he grew an innate fear of being left and betrayed. It was probably silly to think like that, but Ellie had always told him that he was allowed to feel the things that he wanted to feel.

Chuck grinned, thinking at how awesome his sister truly was. She was the strongest woman that he had ever known. After all, who else could say that they were a full-fledged mother at twelve years old? She cooked, cleaned, paid bills, avoided Social Services, did her homework and took care of Chuck whenever he needed some guidance.

There was one other friend apart from Bryce that he truly loved like a brother. Morgan Grimes. He was there when Chuck's mom left and helped him through a really tough period of his life. They played video game marathons that would have insomniacs look at them in awe. Morgan was easy to connect to. He wasn't a high maintenance friend that required lots of time doing silly stuff. He was just as content with just hanging around drinking grape soda as he was playing video games or going out to the pier and to the arcade or the roller coaster.

And then there was Bryce. What could he say about him? A true ladies man, disgustingly attractive and just as big a nerd as Chuck was. They spent hours talking about Star Trek, mostly about the Wrath of Khan obviously, or deciding to code their own version of Zork. And if they weren't doing that, they would usually hit the bars. Of course, Chuck needed a little more incentive, but Bryce always managed to hype him up enough to go, or simply stay at the dorms if Chuck really didn't want to. They also had epic Gotcha! battles in the library, along with marathon Firefly viewings. Word on the street was that there would be a movie coming out soon to finish up the short-lived series. Plans to camp out in front of the movie theatre were already made.

But Chuck didn't like to dwell on the past. He much rather looked towards the future. And the future was bright. Her sister was seeing a cardiothoracic surgeon who was by all meanings of the word, awesome. He was close to finishing his degree and moving back in with Ellie, so that meant that Morgan could come over again. Plus, there were plans made for LarTowski gaming studios. Chuck would be lead programmer, while Bryce would handle the finances. They would both end up acting as CEO. The business plan could use a little work, crayon on toilet paper didn't look very professional after all, but it was a definite possibility.

In his musings, Chuck had walked on auto-pilot and the destination in this case was the frat house. So much good memories were had in that house. The all nighters of programming, losing his virginity to Jill, the multiple parties that they had. Chuck was really going to miss this place. He wasn't ready to give up his inner child yet. Secretly, he hoped that he never had to give that up. It felt like a core part of him.

He opened the front door that led into the tastefully designed living room. Or well, it would've been tastefully designed, but apparently the décor of the past week was pizza boxes and beer bottles. The beauty of being in a frat house, surrounded by six teenagers. Chuck had to physically restrain himself from not going on a massive cleaning spree. He stepped over a pyramid of boxes, which if he was honest with himself, was quite impressive in the way that it was set up. _Isaac Newton, eat your heart out_, he thought with a grin as the structure seemed like it had come from an M.C. Escher picture.

He bounded up the stairs and plopped down on his bed. He grabbed the latest issue of Justice League and settled down for a nice relaxing read. He got through roughly one and a half pages when the door opened. It was Bryce.

"Hey buddy, what's up?" Chuck asked. Bryce seemed down. There was no boyish smile or a cocky grin. His mouth was set in a firm line. Chuck had a bad feeling about it. He inwardly chuckled at the reference.

"Chuck… we have to talk."

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><p>"So, is this the part where you're going to say that we can't see each other anymore, because our parents won't allow it?" Chuck asked with a grin. He didn't get one in return.<p>

"Chuck, this is serious. There are some things going on that you should know about. It could very well set the tone for your future."

Whoa, that sounded pretty bad. He put down the comic book and sat up. "Alright, shoot."

Bryce heaved a deep sigh. "Okay, first things first. Apart from being a student, I'm also a CIA agent…"

Chuck burst out laughing. "And I dress up at night and name myself Rorschach. Get real Bryce." Again, there was no laugh. Chuck did detect a hint of annoyance. "You're totally not kidding, are you?"

Bryce shook his head. "I'm not. And what you're about to hear could very well land me in jail for treason or at the very least get a manhunt on me for going against 'the interest of the United States.'" Bryce actually used his fingers to make air quotes. He picked up a small leather container that looked like a wallet and threw it to Chuck. Inside was the ugliest I.D. Chuck had ever seen.

"Really? This is the CIA ID?" Chuck asked.

"Yeah, I was disappointed as well," Bryce replied with a laugh. "They look much cooler on TV."

Chuck inspected the orange colored monstrosity before throwing it back to Bryce, who deftly caught it. Chuck's curiosity was peaked. "So what is it that we have to talk about?"

"Okay… Have you ever heard of project Omaha?" Bryce asked. Chuck shook his head. "Basically, project Omaha is a secret government project designed to upload information into agents their brains. Basically, it would mean having all the information and intelligence that the CIA and NSA have ever gathered in an agent's head, so that they could go out on missions and be able to identify terrorists, criminals, stolen artifacts… whatever really."

"Uh… what?"

Bryce chuckled but his face remained stoic. "It sounds like a horrible plot for a TV show that would be on the bubble for four seasons but still pull through and then get a final fifth season which would still have an open ended series finale, doesn't it?" Chuck nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Sadly, it's a reality."

"Okay, so assuming that the ID is real, which by the way would really be a shame as they're so ridiculously not cool, and you haven't completely lost your mind, why would you tell me this?"

"Because…" Chuck saw what was coming next from a mile away. "They want you to be the carrier of the Intersect."

"The… Intersect? Really?"

"Yeah, that's what they call it."

"That's… awesome!" Chuck blurted out. Who would've thought, Chuck Bartowski working for the CIA. His alter-ego, Charles Carmichael, suave playboy by day, spy by night. His drink of choice, a martini. He'd drive around in a Lamborghini and have the world's most gorgeous women by his side. Of course, he'd never do anything with those gorgeous women, because he was still faithful to Jill, but the idea certainly was nice. Oh man, he couldn't…

"Chuck!" Bryce yelled. His voice betrayed the fact that it wasn't the first time that he had called his name. "You back?"

"Huh, what? Yeah, I'm here."

"It's. Not. Awesome," Bryce said, clenching his teeth. He seemed really agitated.

"How could it not be?"

Bryce sighed. "Should've just stolen those tests," he silently muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Listen, being a spy isn't at all like the movies show it to be. There's no such thing as a happy ending. Most spies end up burned out and depressed. Sometimes you get to go to a swanky party where you get to dress up in a tux and walk around. Most of the time, you're looking around you, being paranoid of everyone you meet and constantly in fear of your own life."

"So what, you're trying to scare me now?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm trying to do. Here's what I'm going to do. You're going to tell me what you think of the spy world and then I'll tell you how it really works. If you still want to become a spy after that, then I can't stop you."

Well, what _did_ he know about the spy world? Certainly not so much. Sure, he'd seen Spies Like Us a couple of times but he wouldn't put his money on the fact that Dan Aykroyd and Chevy Chase knew what they were talking about. Although Chevy Chase did look like someone who would have a bunker beneath an abandoned drive-in theatre.

"Okay…" he haltingly started. "I guess that you first have to train for a while. And then after you pass you get all these missions of having to gather intelligence. Oh and maybe some sweet martial arts for when a bad guy comes out to hunt you down…"

"Yeah, I'm going to stop you right there. Tell me, Chuck. Do you think that you could shoot someone in cold blood?"

"What? Spies don't do that, right? Surely they only shoot back when they're shot at… like cops… right?"

"Before you get your badge, they order you to kill someone. To see if you have the mental strength to do what it takes to complete a mission. And honestly, Chuck. I'm afraid that you don't have what it takes. You see the good in people. You can't pull the trigger just because someone else told you to do so. Not only that, but you're forced to lie, seduce and alienate yourself from the world. You need to be able to disappear in a moment's notice. By vanishing in a crowd. You're part of the population, but no one knows who or what you are. You'll either be alone or with maybe one or two teammates.

Chuck, I know you. You thrive on people. You say that you have a hard time making friends, but that's because you're scared. But if you'd just look at yourself from someone else's perspective, you'd see what a nice guy you are. Almost everyone I talk to likes you. I like you. And that's why I'm trying to talk you out of this Chuck. I don't want to see my only friend lose what makes him so damn special."

Bryce angrily wiped some tears away. He didn't even try to play them off. He was truly upset. "Look Bryce," Chuck started with a soft voice. He had no intentions of trying to upset his friend any more than he already was. "I appreciate you trying to look out for me, but… hey wait a minute!" His thoughts ran through Bryce's words once more. "You have a badge… Does that mean that you've…?" He trailed off, leaving the question unasked.

Bryce looked Chuck in the eye and he could see the glassy features that his eyes had taken on. He held his gaze for a fleeting second, before all but collapsing on his feet. His shoulders sagged and his hair swirled in front of his eyes. He didn't make an attempt to swipe them out. Chuck was shocked at the transformation. Bryce looked older than he had done only a few minutes ago. He looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on him.

"Are you… okay?" Chuck tried.

"I killed someone, Chuck. How the hell do you think I feel?"

"Yeah… Yeah, I guess you have." Chuck honestly didn't know what to say to that. He had been in some downright awkward situations before. The infamous, "Mom is probably not coming home anymore," followed by the classic sequel of, "Oh, and Dad left too." But he had never been this stumped. "But surely, it was in the name of the CIA… so it must've been for the greater good or something like that, right?"

"I… I don't know," Bryce admitted. "I got a name, a place and a picture. That's all. I still see her when I close my eyes, just lying there…"

Chuck was freaked out. Well, that would be an understatement. Here he was, listening to how one of his closest friends was recounting the day he had to kill someone. He saw the guilt on Bryce's face and the stress that it brought. The worry lines seemed like endless valleys in his usually smooth forehead. But if there was one thing to be said about Chuck, it would be that he was loyal. "Tell me about her."

Bryce stopped looking at the floor and fixed his gaze on Chuck. He winced at the despair he saw in the crystalline blue eyes. "I would if I could. All I know is what I saw. A woman in her late forties, dressed casually. She wore a pair of loose-fitting slacks with sneakers and a white T-Shirt. No print. Her hair was chestnut brown, fit into a ponytail. I stalked up to her but I knew I couldn't bear looking at her. I raised my pistol but I accidentally stepped on a piece of glass. It cracked and she turned just as I pulled the trigger…" He trailed off, his gaze dropping down to the floor again.

Chuck didn't know what to say. He didn't know whether Bryce wanted him to say something or just listen, so he sat there, waiting for some sort of cue. Bryce took a few minutes to compose himself, before looking back up. The grin was set in place, but Chuck feared that it was but a façade he was seeing.

"So you still want to be a CIA agent?"

Chuck quickly shook his head. He wasn't about to kill someone, much less someone based on an order. That was insanity. "But how do we make sure I don't get recruited."

"Well, I happen to know that Fleming's test on subliminal imaging is actually a test designed to see who could control the Intersect. And I also know that you've scored the highest."

"How'd you even know that? He hasn't released the scores yet." Chuck said. Bryce gave him a 'get real' look. "Fine, so what do you suggest we do?"

"Why, Mr. Hunt, I thought you'd never ask."

"Hunt?" Chuck queried. Then it dawned on him. "Hunt! Yes!"

* * *

><p>"You know, there really is nothing glamorous about crawling through air ducts," Chuck quipped.<p>

"You're telling me?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot. You kind of do this for a living now, you know, outside of the fact that you're still a student." Chuck waited, but when it became apparent that Bryce wasn't going to dignify it with a response, he went on. "So, if I'm Ethan, what does that make you?"

"Honestly, I don't even know who the other people on his team were."

"Well, there's Jack Harmon aka Tony Baretta, Hannah Williams aka Pauline Brady, Sarah Davies aka Sarah Walker and Ethan. Incidentally, I always thought that Sarah Walker was a pretty name."

"Guess I'll be Harmon for this analogy to work then. And really, you think a combination of first and last name is pretty?"

Chuck shrugged, as much as that was possible in the cramped space. "Yeah. Sounds like the name that you'd give to a kick ass spy. It's got an air of mystery around it as well."

"Whatever you say, Ethan."

It took a few twists and turns, but finally Bryce nudged Chuck. "We're here. Alright, I'll tie the rope and then lower you down; you hack in and lower your score. We get in, we get out, shouldn't take more than five minutes."

"Unless he's got a decent security on it."

"Don't worry, I know his passwords."

"How could you possibly...? Oh, never mind." Bryce grinned and started tying the rope around Chuck's waist. "So wait, if you have the passwords and the rope, why couldn't you just do it yourself?"

"Well, I wanted to give you an opportunity to make sure that you really didn't want to be a part of the CIA. Plus, if I had done that, you would've missed all the fun. You ready?"

Chuck nodded and Bryce removed the grate, overlooking the computer.

"It really is just like Mission: Impossible," Chuck said.

"Except in this case, you don't have to worry about drops of sweat falling on the floor and setting off the alarm," Bryce informed him.

Chuck nodded. "So there's that. Alright, let's do this thing."

Bryce slowly lowered him from the ducts down into the room. Chuck began humming the theme tune to himself as he hovered over the keyboard. "Bryce," Chuck hissed. "He's got a password on his results folder. What is it?"

"5p0ck43v3r"

Chuck ran the password through his mind. "Spock forever? Really?" He shrugged and typed in the password. The folder opened. "Well, waddaya know?" He located his test result, and whistled. "Holy shit, Bryce. I got 98%! Oh, you got 92%, well done man."

"Will you please just change your score?" Bryce said, in a strained voice. "I don't know how much longer I can hold you and I have no interest in banging your head against the desk."

"Don't worry. Alright, here we… Oh shit!"

"What?"

"Shh!" Chuck said. He listened intently. He hoped it was his imagination but… "Fleming is coming this way!"

"Shit, shit, shit! Hurry up, Chuck, we've got to get out of here."

"I'm working as fast as I can!" He quickly replaced his score with a score of 90%. That put him below Bryce, who had the highest score now. _Guess that means that he'll get the Intersect now_, Chuck mused. He quickly closed the folders and pulled the login screen back up. "Pull me up."

Bryce started tugging. Chuck was 3/4th of the way up when Fleming entered the key in the lock. Chuck blew out a sigh of relief. They would escape. He grabbed the ledge of the air duct and pulled himself up. He crawled back in and put the grate back. Bryce's eyes were wide. "What's wrong?"

"Your ID card!" Bryce hissed.

Chuck looked back down and only just stopped the rush of expletives. Next to Fleming's keyboard was his card, the picture staring back at Chuck. The goofy smile that so many people commented on about making him look cute, a thorn in his side. Fleming was going to see the card and know that someone had broken in. He would eventually find out that something had been changed and Chuck would be shipped off to Langley. He'd get a computer program dropped into his brain and become an agent, which would invariably mean having to shoot someone. Chuck amended his statement from before. Life _had been_ fantastic. It was about to start sucking.

"Professor Fleming, there's been a fight, come quickly," a female voice said outside the door.

Chuck looked at Bryce as the key was pulled out of the lock and the footsteps dissipated. "Did that really just happen?"

Bryce chuckled. "I can't believe that just happened, what are the odds?"

"I don't know, but lower me down so we can get the hell out of here."

"You got it."

* * *

><p>George Fleming grinned. His pay-day had arrived. Not one, not two but three checks in his name. One from Stanford, one from the CIA and the final one from the Meadow Branch development group. Soon he'd be able to retire and live in the Bahamas or somewhere else tropical. He sat down behind his computer to look over the scores of the recent batch of subliminal imaging tests and forward the list to the CIA. He couldn't believe that Chuck Bartowski had 98%. It was the highest that anyone had ever scored. His bosses would be very pleased about this discovery.<p>

He opened the list and scrolled down. Chuck Bartowski, 90%... Fleming frowned. Apparently someone didn't want Chuck's name forwarded to his bosses at the CIA. Oh well, at least he didn't have to edit the score himself. Bryce Larkin would theoretically be the new CIA Intersect. Sadly, he wouldn't be able to handle the download, as his retention rate was too low. Fleming highlighted Bryce's score and added an extra three points to it, and laughed. Now the CIA would get an Intersect that would eventually malfunction and drive its host insane. And Fulcrum would get the one person capable of becoming the human Intersect delivered on a silver platter.

He picked up his phone and rang the number given to him by his superiors. "Initiate the recruitment phase," was all he said. The war was as good as over. They'd captured Orion, who all but walked into their base himself. It was ridiculously simple. Howard Busgang knew Stephen Bartowski, after all, they had worked together on the Intersect. From then on, all Fulcrum had to do was perform a search on Stephen J. Bartowski and find that he had a spouse and children. The spouse was missing, but the children were easily found. A few strategically placed messages about the Bartowski children becoming their new targets and he had immediately surrendered. After that, he built them an Intersect. So far, all their test subjects had perished, but Orion promised them that it was because their retention rate wasn't high enough. Dr. Busgang had acquiesced. So the hunt was opened to find a suitable candidate for the new Intersect and now they finally had him. Chuck Bartowski, the weapon that was going to win the war. And Orion's son.

Fleming laughed at the irony of it all. Orion tried to protect his son and daughter and by building them an Intersect he had made his son a target. And not only that, but he would be responsible for the destruction of all the agencies within the Intelligence community and start the coup that would eventually overthrow the United States government. Fleming logged off and grabbed his coat. This would be what the CIA would get for murdering his wife.

* * *

><p>Chuck collapsed back on his bed. "My heart is still racing man." Bryce just grinned. "So is that it? I won't have anything to do with the CIA?"<p>

"That's it," Bryce said.

"So now you'll end up becoming the new Intersect?"

"I guess…"

"So these last few days will be the only time I get to see you?"

Bryce nodded. "I think so. I don't think the CIA would appreciate me breaking cover to go visit a friend. Plus, I'd just be putting you in danger. If someone would ever find out that the Intersect's best friend was one Chuck Bartowski, they'd all come after you. And I can't stand watching you getting hurt because of me."

Chuck grew silent and thought about it for a moment. "Well, if you're ever in the neighborhood…"

Bryce grinned again. "Of course, you know that."

"I guess LarTowski will never see the light of day now," Chuck said sadly.

"Yeah…" Bryce trailed off. He looked genuinely apologetic.

"So," Chuck said, desperately trying to change the subject to a cheerier one. "That leaves us roughly three weeks before graduation… Shall we tear it apart tonight, for old time's sake?"

Bryce laughed again and Chuck felt like he had the friend back that was so absent that morning. "Definitely. Let's say around eight?"

"You got it. I'm going to take a quick nap," Chuck said. "I'm kind of tired after all the cloak and dagger stuff."

Bryce nodded and stood up. "Alright man. I'll talk to you later." He stood up and walked out of the room, leaving Chuck alone with his thoughts.

He couldn't believe that his best friend was a CIA agent. Furthermore, he was about to be recruited if it wasn't for him. He shivered as he thought about the things that they had to do. He wouldn't wish those horrors upon anyone. So yeah, maybe it was true that he was generally prone to seeing the good in people. But to kill because your boss ordered you to? That was just inhumane. He never figured the CIA to do things like that. But then again, he wasn't too stupid to realize that he was naïve about a lot of stuff that went on in the world. And he was fine with that. He was fine with living in his own bubble of happiness, which he would conjure from even the tiniest of moments. Leave it to other people to deal with the world's problems. Chuck slowly fell asleep.

He was startled by a noise and when he opened his eyes, Jill was sitting in front of him. She looked impeccable as always.

"Hey Jill, what's up?"

"Chuck… we have to talk."

"Not again..."

* * *

><p><strong>AN2**: Okay, so this update might come as a surprise as I kind of said that I wouldn't touch this story until I finished the Intersect Project. But then, one sunny (at least, I think it was sunny) day inspiration struck like lightning, but it was for the second chapter. After sending that one out to a few people, they were all very positive about it, so I wanted to post it for the rest to read, but that pretty much meant that I had to write the first chapter.

The second chapter will be out VERY soon and the IP update is close by (I've written roughly half of the chapter). The title for that chapter is **The Death and Rebirth of Samantha Baker**. It sounds all gloomy and that's because it is! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and until next time.


	3. The Death and Rebirth of Samantha Baker

**A/N**: Seeing as how I had roughly 70% of this chapter written by the time I posted the first chapter, I was able to finish it rather fast. Hope you enjoy it. More A/N after the chapter.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own Chuck. If I did, I probably wouldn't be writing FanFiction about it. But maybe I would. It's a mystery.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2: The Death and Rebirth of Samantha Baker<strong>

The soft clicks of the stiletto heels hitting the pavement were the only sound that was audible throughout the Parisian streets. As the night proved cold, Melanie subconsciously tightened her coat, trying to find warmth in its fabric. Her hand bumped against the small bulge in her right coat pocket. The pistol didn't make her feel safe. It made her feel dread and terror.

As she turned the corner, leading towards her assignment, she couldn't help but let her mind wander. She had always had a carefree attitude concerning life in general. Most of that was thanks to her dad, Jack. So maybe he wasn't the perfect father, after all, he did involve her in all kinds of crazy schemes to get rich. But that didn't mean that she didn't love him. Actually, the bond between father and daughter was infinitely stronger due to the way she had to grow up. Of course, the concession to that was the fact that she couldn't remember a whole lot about her mother or sister. But the memories that she did have eventually stopped hurting.

Growing up as a con-woman wasn't easy. Samantha had always harbored hope for that one true love. The one who would change her notion of love forever. Sure, she had her crushes, but no one to whom she could say without a shadow of a doubt that he was the one. And it was made infinitely harder by the fact that she was essentially a gypsy. A girl, growing into a woman with no name and no home. No chance for love or anything like that to blossom. It was the first real emotional concession that she had made.

After the unthinkable had happened, and her father had been arrested by Langston Graham who in turn had recruited her, she had made a solemn promise to herself. She wouldn't let this life change her. She was going to hold on to what had made her Samantha Lisa Baker. So her quest to find her purpose in life continued. Thanks to the rigorous work provided courtesy of the United States government and several overenthusiastic instructors over at Camp Peary, she figured her destiny was to be a CIA agent. A damn good one, at that. But no matter what they shouted at her, she would never give up on her silly notion of love. The Baker family had always been a headstrong family. Once they sunk their teeth into something, it would be nigh impossible to dissuade them from it. It was a character trait that was shared by both her mother and father. It was also often the catalyst that led to arguments.

Then, one gloomy Monday morning, Samantha was summoned by Director Graham. He told her that for her to become a full fledged spy, she would have to complete her final mission. An assassination on an agent who turned against the interests of the United States government. Samantha had yelled, said that it was inhumane to simply end another person's life based on circumstantial evidence that she wasn't even allowed to see. Apparently, Graham didn't particularly enjoy being yelled at by a girl, someone that he had saved no less and who wasn't even a full-fledged agent yet. After a tongue lashing that would be remembered for years to come, Samantha had turned and walked out of his office, the information of where she needed to be in her hand and her tail between her legs.

After being sufficiently scolded by Graham for a second time the day after, she had received her passport, effectively creating a woman named Melanie Niçoise. An American embassy member, stationed in France. She had also gotten further instructions on where to find the dead drop in France, where her gun would be hidden. The only other thing that she was told was that if she completed the test, she would be an official CIA agent.

The flight over proved to be hell on Earth. The instructors on the Farm had taught her many different techniques to decrease her nervousness. Sadly, none seemed to work. Anxiety was gnawing its way through her entrails, leaving her a sweating mess in the sufficiently cooled cabin. After landing, she bolted out of the airport and to the hotel. The day after that, she waited until nightfall before she proceeded to stalk out into the night. After finding the dead drop, she put the pistol in her pocket before continuing on to her destination for the night.

The staccato of heels against pavement increased in velocity. She was close. Just a few more corners and she would see her assignment. A pretty face, brunette. Could've been a model or a backup dancer in a music video. But she apparently was a rogue CIA agent with a burn notice on her. She was found guilty of treason and Samantha, or in this case Melanie, was the one who they appointed to be executioner.

Samantha rounded the final corner and skidded to a halt. In front of her, with her back turned was her assignment. Her mark. She cautiously stalked up to her. The woman had yet to turn to face her. A loud noise shook Samantha from her thoughts and she saw the woman whirling around to face the sound, bringing her face to face with Samantha.

"Bonsoir," Samantha offered to the woman in a perfect Parisian accent. Languages and accents had always been Samantha's forte. It proved to be invaluable when one was applying for a deep cover role. Samantha knew that after doing a few deep cover assignments, she could work on her plan of becoming the next director of the CIA. But before she could even think of her ambitions, she had to first kill someone in cold blood. She shuddered and hoped that her target hadn't noticed it. But she could probably blame it on the cold if she did.

The woman looked at her, sized her up and nodded once, before returning her gaze back to the river in front of her, evidently not having noticed Samantha's reaction. Samantha had to admit, the river was gorgeous. The moonlight glistened off of the water's surface as it splotched against the embankment. The tranquility of the scene stood in stark contrast with the cauldron of boiling emotions that were raging a war inside of Samantha.

She wasn't a killer. She had always seen the good in people, even though she should've known better. After all, her father wasn't exactly the most kosher of people. But she liked to think that he was simply looking out for his daughter the only way he knew how. It was actually a character trait that, along with her unrelenting stubbornness, was frowned upon by the CIA. They had tried to break her, to destroy her spirit. And they had failed miserably. So eventually Samantha, out of pure desperation, simply hid behind a stoic mask, but that didn't lessen her emotions or the way that she was driven by them. And now her emotions were telling her one thing. She wasn't fit for this.

It wasn't worth it. She was about to throw away everything that made her, her. And for what? A job? She was smart. Actually, she was brilliant. She had a degree from Harvard for crying out loud. She could find a different job. Sure, ever since being offered the chance to work for the CIA, she had harbored some sense of justice but she could just as well become a police officer. When she would then be forced to pull the trigger, at least she would know that there was a justifiable reason and because she had exhausted all the other possibilities.

She shook her head once and stood up. She would go back to the hotel, get back to the States and offer her immediate resignation. Samantha Lisa Baker would _not_ be a CIA agent. "Au revoir," she offered to her target before walking away. Her spirit was lifted immensely and the weight that had been so oppressing was lifted from her shoulders. She glanced around her when something felt off. She turned around to see her target grabbing something in her coat.

A gun!

Training took over as panic started to spread through Samantha. She whirled around, her hand already finding the Smith and Wesson so graciously provided by the CIA. Her hand flew up and the muzzle pointed at the chest of her target. She clenched her hand to a fist and the gun barked once. Samantha barely felt the recoil.

The target looked at her. She expected to see anger or maybe denial. Maybe a hatred that was so vehement that it would burn holes through her body. But all she saw was regret and acceptance. The blood started seeping in her coat as she crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Samantha's eyes went wide. What had she done? She wanted to run over, to check on her. Maybe help her get to a hospital. Anything to make sure that she didn't kill her. But when the sirens cut through the cadence, there was only one thought in her mind.

_Run._

* * *

><p>The cab stopped in front of her hotel. It was a pathetic excuse for a hotel really. The bricks looked like they had survived World War Two, which considering the state of the actual hotel, might've been a possibility. When she first came over, she didn't notice it. She didn't notice anything other than the feeling of pure dread. That feeling had intensified over the course of the night, but she was still pumped on the adrenaline that was coursing through her veins. Her senses were on high alert and paranoia was reigning supreme. During the ride over, her eyes hadn't stopped moving, checking every street corner, from the nice ones along the richer parts of the city to the God forsaken ones that she passed when she was reaching her hotel.<p>

Samantha nodded her thanks and stumbled out, paying the fare with a 20 Euro bill. She had managed to purchase some alcohol from one of the twenty-four hour shops before getting in the cab. She would definitely need it tonight. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see her target's face. It angered her to no end that she couldn't even place a name to the woman. All she could see was her face contorting in pain, before accepting her situation. And then she dropped. All the life had seeped out of her and into her jacket, coloring the purple fabric into a deep crimson shade. Samantha shuddered as she remembered seeing the blood flow out over the cobblestones. Flashes of images kept replaying through her mind. Those three words, _Cédez_ _le_ _passage__. _The words stood out to her and were taunting her. The drop in slow motion, almost like a stop motion picture. Frame by frame of death and decay, courtesy of a single bullet fired by a woman who didn't even want to do so, but was doing it out of self preservation. Samantha wanted to throw her hands up and scream at the injustice of it all, but nothing would come out.

Numbly, she walked up to her room. It was a rat infested hell-hole, but Samantha couldn't make herself care. She sat down on the bed, which creaked when she did. The sheets looked like they had been washed around the same time that the bricks had been laid. Her head hit the pillow but it didn't provide the comfort that she so desperately sought. It didn't rub her back soothingly and tell her that everything was going to be alright. It didn't whisper comforting words in her ear, didn't tell her that she did the right thing. It didn't even really support her head. All it did was lie there, reminding Samantha that she was well and truly alone. She wanted to cry but nothing would come out. She wanted to run to the restroom and vomit, but her stomach wouldn't give.

She sighed and sat up, finding the phone with the one number pre-programmed into it. She hit the speed dial and waited for the phone to connect.

"Graham, secure."

"It's done," Samantha said. There was not an ounce of emotion in her voice. Her father had trained her well.

"Excellent work, Agent Baker. But for future reference, when answering the phone, I expect a proper decorum, as well as you notifying the other end on whether you're secure or not."

She wanted to scream at him. Tell him that he and his protocols could fuck off. That she had no intention of being a shell of a human being and that she was well on her way to becoming one. She was already making sacrifices for a job that she didn't even want. All that came out was a crisp, "Yes Sir, my apologies." She was disgusted with herself.

"Very well. Now, we normally offer our agents a counseling program, to deal with the mental repercussions of taking a human life. Would you require such counseling, Agent Baker?"

She wanted to say yes. She wanted to scream it. She wanted him to softly stroke her hair and tell her that everything was going to be okay. She wanted him to tell her that he was proud of her, that she had done the right thing. But she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she had to rely on anyone's help. He didn't even ask her how it went. He simply told her that he expected proper decorum. She wouldn't show weakness. "No Sir, that won't be necessary."

"Excellent. We expect you back with us at Langley in seventy-two hours, at which point you will undertake a psych evaluation. After you've passed, you will be cleared for field duty. Have a good night, Agent Baker." The way he inflected the word agent made her blood boil. Like it should be a title that she should wear with pride.

"Good night, Sir." _And fuck you and your stupid fucking protocols and your fucking psych evaluations. You're all a bunch of fucking monsters for putting people through this!_

The connection closed itself. She hurled the phone away from her, afraid that looking at it would remind her of the smug look on Graham, as he escorted her away from the tree with all the emergency cash that her father had left for her. He knew that she knew that he had her over the figurative barrel and if she didn't come with him, she'd be with her father, stuck in prison for a long, long time. She was beginning to regret going with him more and more.

She curled up to a ball, hugging her knees to her chest and blindly reached for the wine that she had picked up. It was a cheap wine, so she didn't have to actually use a corkscrew to get to the deep red liquid. She began greedily sucking, trying to get the burning sensation to wash her guilt and despair away. With each swallow the pain in her chest increased. The erratic thumping of her heart made her ears flush out all the other sounds that were coming from the streets below. The only thing she could hear was the irregular beating that was pulverizing her chest.

The swallowing stopped for a moment. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. When she closed her eyes the images that had been so vivid seemed vague and distorted. The woman's face was nothing but a blur. The sucking wound in her chest area seemed to decrease in size. The crimson color of her jacket remained.

She reached for the bottle again, vaguely amused at the fact that she seemed to have downed half of the bottle in what felt like a matter of seconds. Time ceased to have any meaning as the only thing she was truly focused on was the blood red liquid that was releasing her from her own demons. It was ironic that the one color she hated with a passion turned out to be the one giving her comfort. If she was a bit more lucid, she might've appreciated the irony of it. But slowly, everything drained out of her. The adrenaline ceased to have an effect on her and she began feeling dizzy.

The wine started tasting rather salty. She removed the bottle from her lips and dabbed her cheek. They were wet with what was probably a mixture of her own tears and the mascara that she had applied before leaving her room to complete her mission. She shook the bottle, trying to get an indication as to how much of the satisfying burn was left for her to consume. The sound indicated she was roughly 5/6th through. A grim smirk settled on her face. Her own personal psychologist and it only charged her about 14 Euros. And it was much nicer to talk to than one of those old grey people who invited you to "come sit on that couch." Samantha scoffed, followed by a small hiccup. She didn't need help from people who were ordered to give it. She had been independent ever since Graham arrested Jack, she would keep it that way.

The final swallow was taken and immediately forgotten. The bottle fell from her fingers and rolled under the bed where it would hopefully be forgotten. Just like her memory of ever drinking the wine. Just like her memory of the assassination. Just like the woman that she had shot in cold blood. Just like her father who would probably never see the light of day again, if he wanted to be kept safe. Forgotten, just like her.

Samantha laid her head on the pillow and cried herself to sleep, the tears mixing with the alcohol that she was enveloped by. Sleep hit her hard and fast. She dreamed of the final moments of her target's life. The acceptance, followed by a blank stare. There would be no trace of her tomorrow. No one would know that the woman was killed there. As far as people were aware, the woman never even existed. She was forgotten already.

_Just like her._

* * *

><p>Her head was pounding. It was like someone had opted to do brain surgery, but instead of using a surgeon's drill; they decided to use a jackhammer instead. She couldn't even remember her name. Was it Melanie? No, that was her cover name for Paris. The name Sarah Walker shot through her mind. But no, that was her cover name in the agency. All those fucking covers. They only served to make her head feel worse. Samantha Baker. That was it. But what did she do last night? And why was she still wearing clothes?<p>

She inhaled deeply and the stale odor of gunpowder penetrated her nose. She instinctively gagged as the images that she tried so hard to forget returned. The death, the depression and the drinking. She gagged again and ran for the bathroom. She collapsed against the ceramic bowl and the contents of her stomach splattered against it.

She sucked in deep breaths, trying to find a semblance of control. But every breath that she took only made the pain in her chest get worse. She tried to keep in the tears but it proved futile as they slowly trickled down to join the puddle of vomit that had gathered itself in the toilet bowl. She dry heaved a couple of times before rinsing out her mouth with some water from the tap. It tasted like crap but then again, she did feel like crap. It fit.

She stumbled back to her bed, but veered off and picked up the phone that she had thrown away the night before. She had a missed call. It was Graham. She didn't bother calling him back. Not while she was in this mental state. She collapsed back on bed, her body exhausted from excreting the contents of her stomach. Her flight would leave in roughly five hours. Melanie Niçoise would cease to exist. It would be Sarah Walker reporting back to Langley. It would be Sarah Walker who would take the psych evaluation and it would be Sarah Walker who would get deployed in the field. Samantha had to become like Melanie Niçoise. Just another name with no identity. Sarah Walker would have to be her new identity and Sarah Walker had to be ruthless, cold and detached. All the hopes and dreams of Samantha would have to be put on the backburner. Indefinitely. She had to become the cover.

She absentmindedly wondered how she would possibly be able to assume the cover. She could play roles with the best of them, sure. But those roles were for a short period of time. For the rest of her career at the CIA, she was supposed to respond to agent Walker. If someone uttered her real name, she was supposed to give him a blank stare. But she wouldn't give up on who she was. She would always stay Samantha. Underneath the layers of cover after cover, she would be the one pulling the strings. Sarah Walker might be the cold, emotionless robot but when she would be alone, she would make sure that the real woman came out. No one was left to care about her, not even Graham who had supposedly saved her. So, she would do this by herself. She would get through the abyss and crawl out. She wouldn't succumb to her emotions. What was done was done and she did the right thing. She sincerely hoped that one day she could believe that.

She stood up, her knees still a little weak. The putrid smell coming from the bathroom was enough to make her nauseous again. She walked up to the toilet and flushed it, before stripping off her clothes. She hoped that the scalding water would distract her long enough to just not have to think about things. She had always been good in just thinking. But now it was truly her enemy. Because thoughts meant contemplation. Contemplation led to revisiting the events of the past twenty-four hours. Revisiting them meant having to deal with the emotions that she couldn't afford to deal with. She had to be crisp and sharp. She had to prove to the doctors at Langley that she was fit for duty. After all, if she didn't take the job, she would've literally murdered someone. At least now she could tell herself that she did it for the greater good. She wondered if that argument would ever hold water.

The water burned against her skin and Samantha winced, but she didn't bother lowering the temperature. She blankly stared at the wall opposite of her as the spray chastised her back and shoulders. She kept it up for five minutes, before turning off the water and stepping out. She still felt dirty.

She slipped into some fresh clothes, the cool fabric cooling her down far more than the towel. She picked up the phone and was glad to see that there weren't any messages. She cast a last look on the grimy hotel room before grabbing her suitcase and getting out, walking away from her issues that were linked to that particular area. She didn't want to be reminded of the night before, the drunk crying and those damn eyes that kept haunting her. She knew it to be a futile attempt, but she went through with it anyway.

She walked down to the desk and slapped down a few notes. She must've looked horrible. She certainly felt like shit. The clerk didn't even bother saying anything to her. Wordlessly he grabbed the notes and gave her the change. Silently, she took it from him; she didn't even bother giving him a courteous nod. She strode out into the pouring rain. It felt fitting. A torrent of emotions equaled by a torrent of rain.

It was hard fetching a cab. Most of them were already taken, so Samantha stood in the pouring rain for a while. When she did finally manage to get in a cab, she was in no mood to talk. She had every right to be sulky. She'd get herself under control when she was close. At this point in time, Samantha Baker, also known as Sarah Walker and Melanie Niçoise, was angry and upset and she didn't care who found out. As long as it wasn't Graham and his bloodhound shrinks of course.

After giving the cabbie the address to Charles de Gaulle, she collapsed into the backseat and closed her eyes. She was exhausted even after drinking herself into an alcohol induced sleep. Again, her mind replayed the last few moments of her target's life. Samantha wanted to scream but couldn't. She decided that just for now, she'd try to fall asleep despite the vivid images that were haunting her. She knew it was futile.

She instinctively felt the car slowing down and opened her eyes. She caught her reflection in the mirror and winced. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was messy. Just one more thing to fix. She idly wondered if every agent that went through their red test had such a bad reaction to it. Oh, she was under no pretenses here, she was having a horrible reaction to what happened. Maybe she could find a kindred spirit in the Agency. Maybe she should talk to the shrinks. Maybe she could get a decent night's sleep.

Maybe she could turn back time and never meet Langston Graham.

She paid the cabbie and told him to keep the change. She had no interest in touching the money stored on her person. For all intents and purposes she was carrying blood money. She robotically went through the process of getting to her gate. She smiled to the Customs officials who eyed her suspiciously. She was aware she looked like shit, thank you very much.

Samantha entered a chocolate store. She could use the endorphins. After paying for the chocolate, she went in search for a bathroom. She looked like she hadn't slept in quite some time. It was true, but others didn't have to know that. They had invented make-up for a reason after all.

She did her make-up expertly. Just the way she was taught by her instructors on the Farm. "Accentuate your cheekbones," they said. "Highlight your eyes," they informed her. "Always carry out your orders," she was taught. She brushed her hair back to a presentable form. Her locks that used to be a shining golden color now looked faded. She heard two women talking about her in French. They quibbled about her appearance. She shot them an unknowing smile and walked out. Samantha Baker had taken a back seat. This was all Sarah Walker. The stoic unflappable agent who could turn from a lover into a killer in the blink of an eye. The woman who would follow orders without questions, remorse or guilt. Essentially, she was Graham's puppet.

She hated Sarah Walker.

* * *

><p>Sarah Walker glided into the Langley offices. A glare etched into her features that would send most human beings running for the hills. She was the epitome of professional. She stopped in front of the receptionist. "Sarah Walker, here to see Langston Graham."<p>

"Yes, Miss Walker. Director Graham will be with you shortly."

Sarah gave a curt nod and sat down, crossing her legs and putting her hands on her lap. Sarah Walker didn't get anxious or feel the need to fiddle her hands. After all, idle hands were the Devil's plaything and in this case, Graham was most certainly wielding a pitchfork.

Samantha chided herself in dropping her cool façade to think negative about Graham. Sarah would never think ill of her superiors. The emotionless mask was put back in place and the stern look returned.

It only took a couple of minutes before she was led into his office. Sarah stood behind a chair, hands linked behind her back.

"Good morning, Samantha," Graham said. Sarah kept quiet. "Are we no longer greeting superiors?"

"My apologies, Sir. I didn't know you were referring to me."

"Did you change your name? I was unaware of this."

"My name is Sarah Walker, Sir. I don't know who this Samantha is."_Take that, asshole._

Graham grinned. "Excellent, agent Walker…" Samantha clenched her teeth. "How was Paris?"

"I didn't see much of it. After all, I had a job to complete."

"Ah yes. It's fantastic to hear you were successful. Now, all you need to do is pass the psychological evaluation and we can start putting you where you belong, in the field. Needless to say, your marks for pretty much every course we offer was off the charts. You are one of the most promising agents we have. It would be a _shame_ for you not to pass this evaluation."

"Of course, Sir," Sarah responded. Samantha had to laugh at the thinly veiled threat.

"Now, if you could please move yourself over to Dr. Logan's office so you can finalize your training and begin your illustrious career with the Agency." It was as much of a dismissal that she was going to get, so she simply nodded and turned around.

Getting to Dr. Logan's office proved to be an easy feat. After all, he had a nice name tag hanging outside of the door. She knocked on the door.

"Come in," a voice called out from the other side. Sarah opened the door. Her eyes darted through the room, memorizing every item and its placement. A couple of pictures on the desk, probably of his family facing the Doctor. A couple of bookshelves to the left of her. A red leather couch in the middle of the room, with the Doctor's desk across from it, close to the wall opposite of her. A few drawings, made by a child who was still probably in preschool depicting a happy family with a smiling sun above them. Samantha wanted to smile at the picture, Sarah didn't.

"Please, have a seat agent… Walker?" Sarah nodded. The man looked pleasant enough. A neutral face with a soft smile, curling brown hair with graying at the temples, and brown eyes. Samantha decided that she liked that combination. Sarah agreed. She could be courteous to this man.

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Please, call me James. Now, I see that you've just returned from your red test. The red test is a psychologically demanding test which is why we're given the job to make sure that our agents who complete them are mentally fit for duty. Tell me, agent. How have you been sleeping?"

Samantha wanted to tell him everything. How she couldn't sleep at all. How she needed alcohol to find a semblance of control. How she was simply playing a role to make sure that she wouldn't get kicked out and everything would be for nothing. How she could still see those vacant eyes before losing any semblance of life and dropping down to that cold cobblestone street. How the woman's head had bounced against the pavement and produced a sickening thud.

Sarah gave a noncommittal shrug. "As usual."

"Hmm," James said, before writing something on his pad. "It's common for agents to have trouble concentrating, often finding their thoughts straying back to the moment that they took the shot. Has that been the case for you?"

"Sometimes," Sarah said, deciding to go for the half truth. "But it hasn't led to a lapse in concentration of any kind." Now that was a blatant lie.

"So the way I see it, you've not had a lot of problems dealing with the aftermath of your red test?"

"That's correct, Doc… James."

The doctor sighed, before grabbing his legal pad and opening a drawer in his desk. He put the pad in there, before closing it and locking it.

"Alright, now we cut the bullshit." Sarah was shocked, but her face never moved an inch. "Despite what people may believe, I do care for this country and its servants. And seeing as how you are one, I need to get a straight answer from you. This won't reach the upper levels; this is between a doctor and his patient. I've seen too many agents simply shrugging off the red test only to end up depressed and suicidal. I do not want that to happen. So tell me, how _have_ you been handling it?"

Samantha wanted to give in. His brown eyes displayed such honesty and open emotion that she found it hard to look anywhere but his eyes. It made her want to connect. But she had to be careful. This was the CIA after all. Nothing was what it seemed. Even though he said he wouldn't report to his superiors, there could still be cameras and microphones hidden around his office.

"I've been fine, doctor," Sarah stated in a cold voice. "I wouldn't lie about something this important." Samantha had to wince at the hypocrisy.

James sighed. "Very well, agent Walker. If that's so, then you are cleared for duty."

"Wait, that's it?" Samantha asked. She chided herself for letting it slip out as she carefully put back up her Sarah Walker persona.

"Yes. Most agents are too scared or prideful to admit that they have problems in case it would get back to their superiors. That's why we offer the agents a chance to make their confessions off the record. It helps us take care for our employees. But seeing as how you don't need it, we're done."

Sarah nodded and stood up. She reached out her hand and the doctor took it. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She strode out of the door and managed to get to the bathroom and lock herself in before the first sob escaped.

* * *

><p>After cleaning herself up Samantha wanted to get some exercise in. She thought it to be cathartic. Truth be told, that was one thing that Sarah Walker shared with Samantha Baker. She loved to mindlessly pound the heavy bag for a couple of minutes. She would usually be able to project someone or something on it to mercilessly beat into a pulp. She had a good idea as to who her targets would be for today. Sarah Walker and Langston Graham were her targets. Of course she had to don her stupid cover again, but that didn't mean that she couldn't take out her frustrations. And maybe she could take her mind off of Paris again. If only for a little while.<p>

She donned her sporting attire, workout pants and a sports bra, and made her way to the professional gym. She had to hand it to the CIA; they sure knew how to furnish their rooms. She stood in the doorway and again scanned the room. She stopped making up any sort of pretense, she was simply keeping her mind occupied with other stuff. There were three males and a female. Two men were sparring against each other while the third kept to himself using the speed bag. The woman opted to run on the treadmill. She noticed that they were all ridiculously good looking. _Must be a requirement_, she mused. But since these were agents that meant that they went through their red test as well. Maybe she could strike up a conversation and they could tell her how they dealt with it. And that meant that she could drop her Sarah cover and just be her. The girl who liked wearing her emotions on her sleeve. Of course, she'd still have to respond to Sarah, but her reactions could just be Samantha.

She made her way over to the heavy bag and gave a few experimental punches, slowly getting mesmerized by the way the bag swayed as her fists landed on the taut leather. The velocity of her punches increased as she started moving around the bag, each punch sending it swaying like a pendulum, before coming back only to be thrown back. Her feet danced around the bag in impressive speed, her step never faltering. She decided that she might as well add a few kicks in for good measure.

Her legs had always been her primary asset, either as a distraction or simply as weapons. The dorsal region of her foot made a satisfying smack which caused the bag to rock even harder than it had already done. She kept up her routine for a satisfying couple of minutes, before a layer of perspiration had coated her entire body in a light sheen and she stepped away from the bag.

She pulled out a bottle of water from the fridge that was set up in the corner of the room and took a couple of gulps, before moving over to the man who was working the speed bag. "You've got good form," she said. She received a grunt in reply. "Can I talk to you for a bit?"

"Who do I look like? Dr. Phil?"

Well, that wasn't the right thing to say.

"You don't actually have to be an asshole. You could've just said you were busy."

"Guess what, I'm busy." He missed a punch which caused the bag to stop swinging as fast as it did. "Damn it, look what you've done…" He turned to face Samantha when he froze up. His eyes glided down her body, before running them back up stopping on her bare abdomen and chest for a couple of seconds. Samantha inwardly shuddered. "Actually, I might have some time for you. How about we go back to the showers and you can talk to me all you want."

Okay, now that was _definitely_ the wrong thing to say.

"Yeah… I'd rather get my finger nails yanked out and shoved down my throat," she said, before adding sweetly, "but thanks for the generous offer."

The male agent took it in stride. "Whatever, plenty more where you came from."

Samantha shrugged the encounter off and decided to maybe approach the female. She had been running for quite some time it seemed, but her speed never faltered. She bobbed her head along to the rhythm of the music that was coming out of her iPod. Samantha stood on the treadmill next to her and started running. She always liked running. There was something oddly comforting about hearing the soles of her shoes slap against the ground. She started losing herself in her breathing which grew slightly strained over time.

After what felt like an eon, the woman next to her started talking. "Don't worry about it. Most men are like that." She didn't sound winded at all.

"I know," Samantha replied. She didn't, actually, but it felt like the right response. "But, I've got a question."

"Sorry, blondie. We don't do questions here. I just wanted to let you know that you shouldn't be bothered about it."

"But I…"

The woman turned her gaze towards Samantha. "I don't care. You're a big girl; I suggest you deal with your questions yourself." She put her ear buds back in and shifted her gaze back.

Samantha's face fell for a brief second before reverting back to her Sarah Walker cover. The woman who didn't care. The woman who didn't need other people. The woman who could deal with these kinds of things on her own. She had to change a lot these last couple of hours. The change felt less like a change now and more like a safe haven. Maybe hating her cover would be a bad idea if she was forced to use it this much. "Fine, whatever," she spat, before walking off. She had had it with this institution. Maybe she could go to her hotel and fall asleep. She highly doubted it, but it wouldn't hurt to try.

She took a quick shower and got dressed quickly. She had no more intentions of staying there any longer than she absolutely had to. She stalked out of the locker room and ran into Graham.

"Director Graham."

"Agent Walker. I've just gotten confirmation that you've passed your evaluation. Good work. Your first assignment will be given to you soon."

"Yes, Director. If you don't mind, I would like to go back to my hotel now."

Graham smiled. "Of course. Have a good day, agent Walker."

"You too, Sir."

Sarah turned and walked out of the building. She hopped in her Porsche. One of the perks of the job. Of course, she would probably have to drive a less conspicuous vehicle when she would go in the field, but the Porsche was her baby.

The drive took a half an hour. Sarah walked into her room and threw her bag in the corner before plopping down on the bed. She was exhausted. She kicked off her shoes and closed her eyes. As she drifted off, the words of the female agent rang in her head. Everyone was dealing with their issues themselves. There was no way that she could expect any help from anyone in the Agency that wouldn't report to a superior. Her last thought scared her and put her at ease at the same time.

If she wanted to survive in this world, Samantha Baker had to die and she would have to become Sarah Walker. And Samantha Baker was a survivor.

And so was Sarah Walker.

* * *

><p><strong>AN2**: Ah yes, the gloom has started. I've had a ball of a time exploring Sarah's character in this one and it's been my favorite chapter to write in all my stories so far. Anyway, the next chapter to Intersect Project won't be long so we can go back to some lighthearted fun.

This will be the last update for this story for a while, definitely until I finish IP, or until I get another stroke of inspiration for this one. For anyone wondering, this is roughly taking place in 2004, so while I do take liberties with canon, I also grab a few elements from it. So Chuck and Sarah won't meet for roughly 3 years. While I'm not going to explore all those years, I will delve into a _few_ things. Also remember that while things do suck for our main characters (well, things suck alot for Sarah and are about to turn to shit for Chuck although he won't quite be aware of it just yet) there is a reason that I've written the prologue ;)

Hope you enjoyed and until the next time.

Oh, and if you liked it, please do leave a review! They are the main motivation for us aspiring writers/bored people.


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